


you're pretty, you're brutal and you can’t stop

by irritable



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angie-centric, F/F, Internalized Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, and highkey english, and peggy being lowkey in love, ish i mean its mostly just angie being a clever little twit, so many shitty writing techniques focused on describing how the war fucks you up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irritable/pseuds/irritable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy is complicated. She’s got sides and layers and many, many, pointy edges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're pretty, you're brutal and you can’t stop

**Author's Note:**

> ok new to this fandom and i basically just wrote this bc the title also idk about the way i wrote them also this is a new writing style and im v eh about it so im probably going to go back to writing how i normally write so yeah
> 
> impORTANT:  
> -title from caroline by kill it kid  
> -the italian was taken from google translate and most of what is said is insults and curses so i didnt bother writing translations  
> -and most of the time spent here was researching on old terms and the technology ((did the haIRDRYER EXIST IN THE 40S?? basically)) ((it did))

Angie Martinelli isn’t stupid. She’s wise beyond her years, but she learns from a very young age that underestimation is an advantage.

 

She’s good at downplaying her talents, at lying. She supposes that’s why she wanted to be an actress in the first place. There’s a way she lies and spins tales that make people really believe her.

 

_(“The pie is wonderful! Tell yer ma that, won’t ya?”)_

 

She doesn’t do it without reason. She’s not a bad person.

_(“Jamie from down the street didn’ mean ta push me, Frankie. Cool down, gosh.”)_

 

She prides herself at being able to lie through her teeth and not bat an eye. She prides herself for keeping in character, even when the truth lashes and shudders inside her mind.

_(“I ain’t a queer, daddy. I swear it, ma, I swear it. I ain’t no sinner. I swear it.”)_

 

The L&L Automat is a perfect place for her to practice her acting. She fakes a smile and makes small talk when there’s a customer that is at least civil with her.

 

She forces a giggle and bats her eyelashes at the ruder ones.

 

She’s good at it.

 

Then, a woman comes in. She’s dressed in blue and red with the smallest of lilts on her lips.

 

She immediately intrigues Angie. She holds herself high and isn’t just civil when Angie asks for an order, she smiles at her. No teeth. Just the corners of her lips tugging upwards effortlessly. Eyebrows quirked up.

 

“Tea. Earl Grey, please,” she says and Angie almost stabs through the paper on the notepad. _She’s English._

 

She grins, instead. She nods and scratches it down. “Sure thing, English. Anything else?”

 

The brunette tilts her head for a second, her eyebrows jerk up at the same time, before replying with that smile, “No, that’s quite alright. Thank you.”

 

“It’s no problem.” Angie scrutinizes the woman as she takes another order from another married man who practically eats her up with his beady eyes.

 

“Here ya go, English!” Angie places the tea down on the table and pauses. She doesn’t know why she stops at the table. She doesn’t know what she expects.

 

The Englishwoman takes the tea with her right hand and lifts it to her red, red lips, and stops, she smiles at Angie. “Peggy. Peggy Carter. Thank you for the tea.”

 

Peggy Carter. She memorizes the name and mulls over it hours later at her room in the Griffith.

 

A week later, Peggy Carter comes back in. Her heels click-clack against the floor and she slots herself into the booth she was in earlier with a grace that Angie only knows from dancing and perfecting the art of pouring coffee while glancing the other way.

 

“Earl grey, please,” she says again, this time she doesn’t smile, she lets out a sigh and looks relieved when the warm tea is cupped between her long fingers. “Thank you.”

 

Angie notices how Peggy looks like she’s slumped in her seat, despite the fact that her back is as stiff as a board and her shoulders are pulled back.

 

She gives Peggy a comforting smile and slides into the seat opposite her. “Tough day at work?”

 

Peggy quirks her lips up. “Oh, darling, you have no idea.”

 

 _Darling_. It rings in Angie’s head briefly. “Tell me about it, English.”

 

“The men at the office, goodness knows what their mothers would say if they saw the way their sons act,” Peggy mutters.

 

Angie snorts. “I know _all_ about cheesy men.” She sends a subtle glare to the back of a thin man with grubby fingers digging into the bread he was devouring. When she turns back around, Peggy’s lips pull into that smile that has coils ripping at Angie’s stomach. “So, the office?”

 

“The phone company,” Peggy replies, complete with a roll of her eyes.

 

Angie isn’t stupid. “There many men on your floor of the phone company, English?”

 

“Oh, not too many, but the ones who are there aren’t that…” she pauses and fumbles for a word, finally settling on one, “pleasant.”

 

There’s a small frown that mars the smooth skin of Peggy’s face and the last sip of her tea before she sets the cup down and gets to her feet. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Angie, but I do have to go now.”

 

Angie’s wise, sure, but she doesn’t stop to think before is comes out of her mouth, “How’d ya know my name?”

 

Peggy quirks an eyebrow as she smooths out the wrinkles in her skirt and lets out a soft chuckle (Angie decides she likes the low, throaty sound of it). “You’re nametag, darling.”

 

Angie’s mouth is still in an ‘O’ when the doors swing shut behind Peggy.

 

_(“I’m not a queer. I’m not a queer. I’m not a queer. Charlie from next door fancies me. I’m not a queer. I’m not,” she chants to herself, “I’m normal. I’m not a dirty sinner. I’m not a queer.”_

_She barely gets a wink of sleep and trudges down to breakfast with her boisterous family._

_I’m not a queer, she thinks to herself, I’m not.)_

 

Peggy becomes a regular and Angie finds her fake smiles becoming genuine ones. It’s always a steaming cup of earl grey for her, sometimes she chooses a sandwich to go with it, one time she even gets a plate of fries. She always tips generously.

 

“Tough day with the fat-heads at the phone company, English?” she’d ask while pouring her a cup of tea without even needing to be told to pour it and expertly mixing in some sugar.

 

The other woman would nod, humour Angie for a while before asking about her own day. If there weren’t any other customers around, she’d sit and rant about the geezer that sat at the bar from morning till noon, or her latest audition where the producers were more interested in the volume of one's torso rather than their talent.

 

And if there were customers, well, Angie preferred sitting with Peggy than dealing with them. (Only when Angie's boss comes in from around back after having a smoke does she push away from Peggy's table and throws the cloth over her shoulder.)

 

Angie figures out much later than she should that Peggy’s ex-military. She chastises herself for not noticing it earlier with the way she held herself, tall and proud, and the way she winces every time Betty Carver’s ‘damsel-in-distress’ shriek crackles through the radio.

 

She brings it up the next time Peggy comes to the L&L. “Tea, soldier?”

 

Peggy twitches, but nods anyway. When Angie leans on the table with her elbows after pouring her tea, Peggy snorts with the teacup held close to her face. “How’d you know?”

 

“I have four brothers and three cousins. Frontlines…” Angie trails off and a wistful sigh escapes her lips. Peggy understands, but she doesn’t say anything. “They come home with backs as straight as a pin, I tell ya. They come back different.”

 

Peggy nods, understanding. Because she does understand. No one comes back from the frontlines without scathes and scars. No one comes back normal.

 

“It must be hard.”

 

The Englishwoman lets out a distracted hum as she finishes her tea, glancing to Angie who’s examining her with an inscrutable expression.

 

“It must be difficult to go from army to the phone company. Harder to do it alone, must be, I hope you have someone.”

 

“I did,” is all she says.

 

Angie stares into Peggy’s guarded eyes and she has the urge to hold the woman until her walls crumble and maybe she doesn’t need to carry the burden of bullets and blood alone.

 

She grips the washcloth in her hand tighter and moves past the empty tables. “Have a good night, English.”

 

_(“I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.”)_

 

Peggy ends up moving two doors down.

 

She naively thinks they'd become closer, but the mysterious air around the damned woman just thickens.

 

They still spend time together at the L&L, they still talk, but at the Griffith, it’s just small talk at breakfast or greetings in hallways. It doesn’t sit well with Angie.

 

“What’s cookin’, private?” she finally has the courage to ask when Peggy storms towards her own door with keys in hand and a frown.

 

At the sight of Angie, the woman instantly perks up a bit – Angie doesn’t notice. She lets out a weary sigh and pauses at her door. “The boys at work, they make right arses of themselves.” She raises her eyebrows after a pause. “And Angie? Private? _Really_?”

 

“Well, I’m sorry, captain-chief-sergeant-lieutenant-major, sir,” Angie responds with a roll of her eyes. "Do forgive me," she adds, fake accent and all.

 

Peggy laughs and Angie’s reminded once again why she doesn’t mind the Peggy’s company, even if she barely knows anything about her. Because she’s not afraid to laugh, but she's not afraid of putting someone in their place either. Because although she seems a bit aloof, her humour is still intact and her smile is still brilliant.

 

“If that exists, I’m sure you’d have just gotten my ranking right, Angie, darling.”

 

Goodness, Angie likes her accent. It makes everything sound more posh. More important. She loves it when Peggy says her name.

 

“Have a nice night then, English.”

 

“And you, as well.”

 

_(“Don’t tell my mother, Angela. I’ll tell yours, if you do. I’ll tell everyone.”_

_“I’m no snitch, cool it.”_

_“Good. So, I just kiss you, right?”_

_“I’m sure you’ve kissed before, Joanne. I’ve seen you kiss Ross.”_

_“Just don’t tell. I’m no sinner. I’m not a filthy dyke. Don’t tell.”)_

She doesn’t like Mr. Fancy. He’s sketchy. And his accent isn’t as charming as Peggy’s. She’s seen him before, each time he’s more polite, and each time she’s less civil.

 

However, Angie finds it cute the way Peggy thinks the way they’re talking is subtle. Really, it isn’t.

 

“Tea and crumpets served on top of the union jack, for you, sir?” she mutters to herself before glaring dead in his eyes and pouring a cup of coffee. She spills a bit out on purpose and hopes when he attempts to pick it up, it’ll wobble onto his suit.

 

It doesn’t. She hates him more.

 

She feels his eyes on her back when she retreats to the kitchen to gossip with the cook.

 

By the time the scrambled eggs for the drunkard by the door is finished and served, Peggy’s already seated with her back to Mr. Fancy. She’s murmuring under her breath and glancing around.

 

Their eyes meet. Angie grins like she hasn’t been staring for the past minute and brings tea over.

 

She’s an actress. She can lie.

 

“Lovely evening, isn’t it, English?” she inquired, though she has minimal interest for the answer.

 

“Quite. Thank you, Angie.”

 

She manages to give Peggy a tight smile before narrowing her eyes at the back of the fancy man’s head and gliding away to the next table with her fake smile in place.

 

Barb arrives early for her shift in a wonderful mood; her date with the lad across the street went well. Angie manages to slip away from work early and slumps into Peggy’s booth just as Mr. Fancy strides out the door.

 

“That’s your fella, corporal?”

 

Peggy scoffs, “Thoroughly offended, Angie. Corporal? Goodness, my grandmother would roll in her grave if I was, God rest her soul.”

 

Angie raises an eyebrow with a pout. “You’re not answerin’ anythin’, English.”

 

“No, he’s not my _fella._ He’s married,” Peggy states this as if it were obvious.

 

“Honey, a diamond don’t mean anything with a man like that, pretty face, nice suit and all.”

 

Peggy doesn’t smile, but she shows no sign of anger. “It would certainly stop me, Angie.”

 

Angie figures she already knew that. “Walk me home, then?”

 

“Of course.”

 

_(“Ange, you hear?”_

_“Pa?”_

_“Jimmy at the butcher’s is a faggot! A damn faggot!”_

_“O-Oh.”_

_“He needs a good beating, I tell ya. He needs a good prayer, I tell ya.”)_

 

She understands secrets. She’s good at secrets. But, good God, Peggy probably kept far too many to be healthy.

 

And, okay, maybe Angie’s mad at Peggy.

 

They see each other on a daily basis and are friendly even, way past civil.

 

Friends don’t brush each other off regularly, Peggy’s smart, no matter how emotionally incompetent she may be, she should know this.

 

But Angie hates how Peggy can simply sit at the bar, look at her with those soft, pleading eyes, and she’d forgive her. Just like that.

 

Then, she tells Angie about her day with red eyes and a slump to her back that Angie’s never seen before. Angie comforts her and serves her a cup of coffee, instead of tea.

 

_(“Federico from my brother’s class says he likes me!”_

_“Good on you, Josie! Angie, did you hear?”_

_“Course. Nice going, Josie.”_

_“Oh, yes, he’s taking me out to the pictures on Friday night. What ‘bout ya, Angie? I know Joanne here’s got Ross.”_

_“Yeah, what about you, Angie?”_

_“No. I don’t fancy any boy, Josie. I don’t.”)_

 

She’s smart. She just doesn’t expect a millionaire to swing open Peggy’s door and smirking under his thick moustache.

 

“English in?” she asks instead of greeting him.

 

Howard Stark leans against the open door with his stupid leer. “Peggy? No, she’s not home at the moment. I’m her cousin.”

 

Angie scoffs, she’s not stupid. “Right. And I’ll be Howard Stark, then.”

 

His eyebrows jerk up and he straightens a bit before slouching again and relaxing. “I see.” He steps aside to allow her through. “Well, Peg isn’t in, but I’m sure I could help you out.”

 

“When is she coming back, mister?”

 

“It’ll be a while, I could help pass the time, though.”

 

Peggy returns to her apartment minutes later with Howard hopping around her furniture and Angie launching playing cards at him.

 

She clears her throat, and they both freeze.

 

“Lovely evening, isn’t it, Peg?”

 

“Shut up, you bloody wanker,” she spits out at Howard.

 

Angie’s never seen her this angry before. Sure, she’s seen her hiss at the sleazy frequents of the L&L, but Peggy’s livid.

 

She’s absolutely livid. Her knuckles are white, her fingernails dig into the cloth of the bag she’s clutching, and her jaw is clamped tightly.

 

Peggy sweeps her gaze over to Angie, her grip loosens only momentarily, but for half a second, Angie understands quite how frightening Peggy really is. She offers her a meek smile and begins to gather the fallen furniture.

 

“Oh, English, sorry for the mess. I’ll clean it up for you and I’ll just be on my way.”

 

“It’s alright, Angie. What did you need, again?” Peggy directs her attention to the waitress, after she shoots Howard the most acidic glare she can muster.

 

Angie laughs nervously. “Jus’ wanted to see if you wanted to stop by for schnapps and pie. Sorry to bother ya, Peg.”

 

Peggy nods with an air of finality, and Angie knows it’s a dismissal, but she hesitates at the door. Howard and Peggy are in a stare off, but the man’s eyes momentarily flit to meet Angie’s and the corner of his lip twitches.

 

“Have a goodnight,” she decides to mutter eventually.

 

“Close the door behind you, please,” is what she gets in return and she swears she sees Howard Stark gulp and shuffle farther away from the mysterious Englishwoman.

 

Phone company Angie’s ass.

 

_(“Angela? Angie Martinelli?”_

_“Mornin’, Jimmy.”_

_“I- Did ya need anything?”_

_“I think you’re disgusting, Jimmy. I think you’re a dirty, sinning, disgusting queer. God condemns ya. It’s disgusting. It’s unnatural and disgusting. Disgusting, is what it is. You’re a faggot. A queer.”_

_“…Angie. Angie, you’re crying.”_

_“I’m disgusting, Jimmy. Oh Lord, forgive me. God. I’m disgusting. I’m disgusting. Jimmy, I’m not a queer. I’m not… I’m not a queer.”)_

 

It’s the third night in a row that the pipes and walls groan and scrape. It’s the third night in a row that Peggy’s scaling the wall to get back in past curfew.

 

Angie peeks from her curtains.

 

Thin veils of light peek from the windows of the Griffith, illuminating the determined face of Peggy Carter.

 

Peggy winces when there’s an especially loud creak and proceeds again more carefully. Her agile body twists easily on to the ledge outside of their floor and she cautiously takes small shuffles towards her window.

 

The woman rolls her eyes when she finds her window locked and Angie can basically hear her disgruntled sigh, but that won’t stop her, Angie knows.

 

There’s three main things that the two have in common. Firstly, they’re both professional liars. Secondly, they’re both incredibly intelligent. And, thirdly, they are both proficient in the skill of picking locks. (There’s much more, like they’re surrounded by pigs at their work, and they’re both much more than ordinary, but the first three are the more relevant ones.)

 

She doesn’t slip under her covers until she hears the muted thump of Peggy landing in her room and the thud of the window sliding shut.

 

She doesn’t bring it up during breakfast, because she doesn’t want to pry, but mostly because she knows the answer would be a feeble excuse about the phone company and not wanting to be caught by Miriam Fry.

 

Peggy does an expert job at concealing her nightly activities, though, better than Angie ever did back at her childhood home.

 

But, having snuck out frequently of her family home in her teenage years to meet the butcher’s boy herself, Angie knows when someone’s hiding something.

 

Peggy avoids talking about her nights and she pretends to be fully awake during breakfast. She even surprises Angie and orders a coffee, black, two sugars, please.

 

Angie nearly rolls her eyes in front of Peggy when she mutters something about the phone company and working late.

 

Do the tangled wires and connections at the company keep you up at night, Peggy? Angie snorts.

 

Army women. So dramatic.

 

_(“Hey, pa, Angie’s canoodling with the faggot! Did ya know that?”_

_“Shut up, Frankie! He’s… Jimmy ain’t a… Jimmy ain’t a faggot, Frank. Want me to tell ma you eat her dinner with muddy fingers?”_

_“You’re with a queer, Angie?”_

_“He’s different now, pa.”_

_“Oh, really? Hey, old lady, our Angie’s a good girl. She fixed the faggot! Cook more risotto!”_

_Angie’s tightlipped for the remainder of the night.)_

 

Angie beams when she opens her door to find Peggy with that stupid smile of hers.

 

“I never really did take you up on that offer for schnapps and pie, did I?” she says in lieu of a greeting. “May I come in?”

 

“Sure thing, English.”

 

She closes the door behind Peggy and waves at the chair by the window for her to sit down.

 

As Peggy sweeps her gaze over the quaint apartment, Angie shoves aside the other chair, slams the heel of her foot on the floorboards beneath the previous spot, and without looking, she jiggles one of the pieces of wood and reaches in.

 

Peggy watches with a raised eyebrow as Angie produces a bottle of schnapps and reinserts the floor.

 

Angie only grins and slides the chair back over. “What? The girls in this building are sneaky and some are real loyal t’ Ms. Fry, I’m warnin’ you. Plus, you’re not the only one with secrets.”

 

“I suppose so.”

 

“Gosh, you’re so British, sergeant,” Angie teases as she hands Peggy a slice of rhubarb pie and a cup of schnapps.

 

“Well, I _am_ from Britain,” she pauses to take a bite out of the pie, “and I certainly wasn’t a sergeant, either.”

 

The waitress makes a face at Peggy as she sips her schnapps. “Won’t you just tell me?”

 

Peggy laughs.

 

The lights brightens Peggy’s face and her eyes shine a bit. And Angie can’t look away.

 

They’re not the normal steel vaults in this light, hiding secrets and holding darkness. Instead, they remind Angie of autumn. A cool breeze and leaves falling.

 

It’s carefree. Without ghosts and the piles of bodies on her shoulders.

 

She knows all about soldiers.

 

All about them.

 

“It’s never that simple, darling.”

 

Angie’s entranced by this woman. She’s a puzzle. Angie’s no good with puzzles like that.

 

“It’s never that simple and it’s certainly serves as good entertainment, to be quite honest.”

 

“I would call you captain next, but that’s reserved for _Captain America_.”

 

Peggy’s smile shrinks, but not completely.

 

Her eyes lower to stare into the cup and the swirling liquid matches the ghosts that dance in her eyes.

 

Her head moves so subtly, softly, that the nod can be passed off as the tilt of her head. “Yes. I believe the title is taken.”

 

She’s no good with puzzles, but she’ll try her damn hardest to solve them.

 

_(“Angie! Did you take pa’s paper again? Hey, fat-head, you’ll never solve the crossword, just give it back, he’s swinging the wrench around in the garage again.”_

_“Get lost, Bruno, I’m almost done!”_

_“That one’s wrong, Angie.”_

_“Bruno, won’t ya just wait- Hey! Give it back! Jerk!”_

_“Cool down, meatball!”)_

 

Peggy is complicated. She’s got sides and layers and many, many, pointy edges.

 

She’s _proper_ , yet she has a sharp humour and the ability to smile genuinely. She’s strong, independent, and she’s able to hold her own, but she has an air about her that makes people relax.

 

She can make people feel better by speaking with that accent and serving her own tea.

 

“Don’t listen to them, Angie. You’re a _wonderful_ actress.”

 

Peggy rubs the curve of Angie’s back and gingerly hands her a lukewarm cup of her earl grey tea.

 

“I shoulda listened to my pa and headed off to secretarial school,” Angie sobs, a sniffle follows and she sinks deeper into Peggy’s bed. “I shoulda listened.”

 

“Angie, darling, you’re amazing. You’re just so talented, don’t listen to them!”

 

Angie leaned ever so slightly into the warmth Peggy’s hand emits. Gosh, they are warm.

 

“Thanks, English.”

 

“Any time, Angie. Anything to help.” Peggy smiles after that, teeth and all, and Angie’s heart beats a bit faster.

 

She returns the favour with tears and spiel about their grandmothers.

 

_(“Repeat, Angie, repeat after me. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with us. We’re queer. We’re okay. God loves all. There ain’t nothin’ wrong.”_

_“There… Jimmy, please, oh, help me.”_

_“There’s nothin’ wrong with us, we ain’t hurtin’ nobody, an’ we’re queer. We’re okay. I’m okay. You’re okay.”_

_“Don’t make me say it, Jimmy. Please.”_

_“Nothin’ wrong with being queer, Angie.”_

_“There – There’s nothing wrong with us. We’re not hurtin’ anybody. I’m okay.”_

_“You’re okay.”)_

 

Angie taps her foot against the floor, repeatedly, non-stop. She calls in sick at work and nibbles the breadsticks she has stashed.

 

Oh, _God._ How did everything become so jumbled up? So _fucked_ up?

 

 _Peggy, Peggy, Peggy,_ she chants in her head and her fingers twist around each other, slick with sweat. _Peggy, Peggy, Peggy._

 

Most of the Englishwoman’s stuff had been moved into Angie’s apartment, to keep the stupid _SSR_ from taking them.

 

She doesn’t even question the many weapons she found stashed beneath and inside furniture. She avoids snooping into books, files, photos, but her fingers curl around the cool metal in her hand.

 

Her eyes shift across her now cramped room and catches on a mirror. She looks like she’s gone nuts with that hair and frantic eyes.

 

She probably has.

 

Peggy Carter did that to her without even being here. Christ. She's doomed.

 

The sound of the radio crackling sends goosebumps over her skin and she shivers.

 

Her fingers pull apart and she eyes the gold metal that flashes in her eyes.

 

Her mind momentarily flits to her four beaming brothers and _Jimmy_ in their dirty and torn clothing. She remembers hugging each of them tightly and pressing kisses to the sides of their heads before she turns away to hide the tears that well up in her eyes as they march to their deaths.

 

She remembers letters. Remembers smudged ink on rough paper.

 

The first to die was Bruno. For two weeks, she locks her door, doesn’t speak to anyone, and practices lines over and over and over until midnight when the tears leak down to her mouth and she tastes salt in her raw throat, until she almost falls with exhaustion.

 

Her youngest brother, Tommy, loses his legs and his soul. He returns home, only to leave again three months later with thick red and fear clinging to his walls and the echoes of a gunshot trapped within the four walls of his room.

 

The war _steals_ away her best friend and all her brothers for years.

 

Leaving only empty shells. Their smiles holds no meaning, their eyes are home to the rubble and dust of what they were, there’s death in their blood, and screams poison their minds.

 

Jimmy goes back to the army again. He’s not normal. He’s a faggot with rotting insides. This time when he returns, the army wraps him like a present.

 

The gift box he’s wrapped in is shiny and decorated in blue, red, white. _Proud. Noble. Faithful,_ is what they say when he’s greeting old friends and finally smiling with life again.

 

Life. Angie snorts.

 

She rubs the metal between her thumb and index finger with a sigh and slumped shoulders.

 

_(Angie dances in her room until her feet bleed, and sings until her voice is stolen by wind, and recites until she can perform three different plays in her sleep._

_“Are you proud of me?” she whispers to her Jimmy. To her brothers. And to the great Captain America when news of his plane falling reaches her ears._

_Her mother slaps her across the face and her father threatens to boot her out of his home when the tippity-tap of her shoes sound through the floorboards during the night again._

_Two whole months of tippity-tap, tippity-tippity-tap-tap.)_

 

There’s a knock on her door that’s not the familiar knock of Carol telling her to head down for breakfast.

 

She slowly gets to her feet and paces to the door. Her muscles burn and her back aches, but she ignores it.

 

There’s another knock. More insistent.

 

She cracks the door open slowly.

 

“Darling?”

 

Angie drops the insignia and it clatters to the floor, she swings the door wider.

 

She wraps her arms around Peggy’s neck and buries her face against the brown curls that she’s grown to adore. It takes Peggy a moment before she returns the gesture but not before grumbling about stupid Italians knocking her favourite hat off.

 

Peggy’s warmth and the scent of her perfume and sweat doesn’t bother Angie. The clammy feeling of Angie’s arms around Peggy’s neck don’t seem to mind her, either.

 

 She sighs into Peggy and marvels in the feel of Peggy’s firm arms around her.

 

She’s on her tippy toes and the stuffiness of the hallway prickles against their skin.

 

It’s imperfect, but Angie’s never felt this relieved. She’s never felt this happy.

 

Angie lets out breathy chuckle when her feet slips out from beneath her and she loses her footing. She almost swoons when Peggy only tightens her hold to keep Angie from falling on top of her.

 

Peggy looks so much more delicate than Angie. She’s haunted by the war and by loss, but it’s still her keeping Angie on her feet.

 

“2nd lieutenant,” she murmurs, “welcome home.”

 

Peggy’s soft laughter is music to Angie’s ear. It’s light and filled with warmth.

 

And, thank the lords, she’s safe.

 

_(“I’m doin’ it, Jimmy. I’m leaving here and going to New York. I miss you. I hope you’re happy somewhere, I hope you met your prince charming, an’ I hope you’re proud of me, Jim, ‘cause I’m doin’ it.”_

_Despite the breeze that nudge at the leaves by her feet, she feels at home. She feels-_

_“Okay. I’m okay, now. I’m okay. Thank you for everything. Thank you for making me okay. I’m proud.”_

_The cold stone underneath her palms sends chills through her bones and anchors her before she can step back. She doesn’t want to leave. She wants to leave here, sure, but she doesn’t want to leave him. She doesn’t want to leave her brothers._

_She does, anyway.)_

 

Things change. Albeit, subtly.

 

Peggy still doesn’t talk much about her work, except, “I’ll be _fine_ , Angie,” and, “Goodness, the men in the office are thoroughly ridiculous and some are even rubbish at their jobs!” and, once, even a, “Keep your mitts on, darling, I won’t explode today.”

 

(To which Angie replied with a roll of her eyes and a, “You’re becoming more American. What would the King say, English?”)

 

She makes up for the secrecy by sitting down in the diner until Angie finishes up her night shifts or offering up a plate of rhubarb pie when Angie returns from auditions. It's nice.

 

Angie cuts down on shifts, but keeps the ones that agree with Peggy’s slightly hectic schedules, and makes more time for auditions and practice.

 

By the end of the first week living together, they are well settled in and Angie’s began to cook meals for the both of them. Peggy fills the house with music and it’s a nice change from the booming voices of wise guys and the high pitched screeching of Betty Carver.

 

When she tells Peggy this, she snorts and offers her a bottle of schnapps from Howard Stark’s extensive collection of alcohol.

 

There are things that stay the same, though. Peggy is still very English and Angie still forces smiles at the diner – especially during the lunch shift on Saturdays when Peggy can’t drop in.

 

When Howard Stark stops by, Angie tries to be civil until he reaches over to touch her thigh, then she throws kitchen appliances that really don’t need to be _this_ high-tech at him.

 

Peggy quickly wraps an arm around her waist and hoists her away from him, which stops her immediately, because the woman is _strong_. Howard gets a quick shouting at and he apologizes soon after, but promptly winks at her and smirks.

 

She can’t do much about it, considering the lovely house she lives in is _his_ house.

 

And she is perfectly fine  _staying_ in the house.

 

So fine. She almost convinces herself that she’s capable of living with Peggy without her heart aching every time she goes out the door with Mr. Fancy and doesn’t return until the dead of night with bruises tarnishing her skin.

 

_(“How’s the city life treatin’ ya, Angie?”_

_“It’s good, ma.”_

_“Only ‘good’?”_

_“Yes, daddy. Good, and far better than this place.”_

_“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”_

_“I just miss them. Tha’s all. I just miss Bruno, and Tommy, and Jimmy. The walls carry too many memories.”_

_“Too dramatic, ya are. Still chasin’ after acting, then?”_

_“Yes. I am. So I hear Ralphie got hit by a bus? How's Uncle takin' it?”)_

 

Angie gets minor roles, usually. But lately, she’s been getting diddly squat and her wads are thinning.

 

“I believe you need a drink?” comes Peggy’s light, teasing voice from the kitchen, startling Angie.

 

She’s dressed in that robe of hers, the one that usually results in Angie turning her shower water around to blue.

 

“God, yes. You’re a blessing, English.”

 

Peggy laughs like she doesn’t completely believe it. “To those who stay alive, yes.”

 

Angie’s too tired to ask about that, and in two hours top, too drunk to worry about it.

 

“Say, English, got any wolves after you?” she brings up from her spot on the plushy sofa with a wiggle of her eyebrows.

 

Peggy watches in amusement as Angie slurs her words and tries to throw a pillow at the grand ceiling. “No. No men. And, you?”

 

“’Fraid men aren’t for me, Ms. Carter. I had one, not much of one, but, still. The war went and pulled his insides out. Had brothers, too. War ain’t good. Nasty business, lieutenant. English. Peggy. Peg. Pegs. Leggy Peggy. Have I ever complimented yer legs?”

 

Peggy looks contemplative, her fingers tap a beat on her glass and her head is tilted in thought. Her finger comes to a rest on the rim, red nail polish reflecting the glow of the light for a short fraction of a second before she continues the tapping.

 

She answers slowly, after a while, “You have. I could go on Broadway, you said.” She’s still deep in thought, mind probably reliving her army days and Angie sobers up the smallest amount. “Right rubbish, that is,” Peggy mutters to herself as she blinks herself back to the current moment. “Rubbish.”

 

“Martinelli’s only speak the truth, Pegs.”

 

“I reckon it’s time for bed, Ms. Martinelli,” Peggy muses.

 

She gets to her feet and sets her glass down in one swift move, then, she helps Angie get to her wobbly feet and helps her stumble to her room.

 

“Water, Pegs,” Angie mumbles as she’s sat down on her bed.

 

Peggy sighs, leaving the room and returning with a glass of water and a snuggled up Angie.

 

Angie sits up when Peggy places the glass by her bedside and slings one arm over Peggy’s right shoulder.

 

“Have dreams of crumpets and tea, English,” she says right before leaning forward and smacking her lips on the corner of Peggy’s lips. “And scones.”

 

_(“Angie?”_

_“Frankie.”_

_“Don’t be listenin’ to them, alright? You do what you want.”_

_“Thank you, Frankie.”_

_There’s a silence spent staring at each other._

_Frankie longs for the softness in his sister’s eyes to replace the tiredeness in his, and Angie’s heart withers the smallest amount inside her chest when she sees the shadows that fall over his eyes and cheeks.)_

 

“English, next time I’m weepin’ about an audition, you do your British wonders and make me some tea, instead of giving me something stronger than schnapps.”

 

Peggy eyes the Italian with amusement over her newspaper. “Good morning to you, too, Angie.”

 

The agent is seated comfortably on an armchair with a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

 

She’s already dressed for work, her hat sat on her head nicely and formal wear ironed, ready to be ruined the next time she tries to battle armed brutes. Her legs are folded over each other, her shoulders back and relaxed, and her enticing, red lips curled in a smile.

 

“It’s too early for it to be good. Coffee?”

 

“In the kitchen, dear,” Peggy directs without looking back up from her newspaper again. “It’s also already 8:30.”

 

Angie doesn’t bother replying until she’s downed her coffee and made pancakes for herself. All the while, she mulls over the way Peggy said ‘dear’. That was new, it was usually ‘Angie’ or ‘darling’.

 

When she finishes scarfing down her pancakes and washing the dishes, she glances over at Peggy. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“Agent Thompson – the blond one – is still very much sexist and a bloody jerk, I don’t feel like showing to work on time if he’s only going to let me in to meetings if I bring coffee for them all, but there’s still _some_ level of respect, so he can’t bloody well do anything about it.” Peggy smirks to herself.

 

“You have time to tell me what happened yesterday night, then?”

 

Peggy stiffens just a bit, and if you didn’t know her as much as Angie did, you wouldn’t have noticed a difference.

 

Her hands stills, coffee poised in the air and newspaper still on the latest Howard Stark Scandal. “You babbled and said something about my _spectacular_ legs.”

 

Angie considers the vague reply in her head before accepting it.

 

Before she can say anything, Peggy’s coffee lands on her plate with a clink and her newspaper is discarded onto the seat she previously occupied.

 

“Need a ride to the L&L, Angie?”

 

_(“What would ya like? Oh. Frankie, what bring you over here?”_

_“The family’s worried about ya, Ange, you skipped on Sunday dinners the last two times already.”_

_“Nothing to worry about, tell ‘em that. I jus’ took up extra shifts and couldn’t find the time to come over. I know, I shoulda called. Tell ma not to worry too much.”_

_“It’s hard livin’ out here by yerself. I’m proud of ya.”_

_“Oh. Thanks, Frank. Did ya want anythin’? The boss is glaring.”)_

Angie doesn’t stop to think when she grapples Peggy from behind with a high pitched squeal.

 

She shouldn’t have done that.

 

She really should have expected it when Peggy flips her over her head and leans over her body with a bright red heel pressed to her throat.

 

Upon seeing who it was, Peggy immediately springs off the wheezing waitress and helps her up while apologizing profusely.

 

“Gee, English, falling for you sure is rough,” she manages to joke while wincing.

 

Peggy ignores the comment and rubs Angie’s back with a slightly frantic expression. “You really shouldn’t jump on top of a trained agent, Angie.”

 

“I normally get more enthusiastic reactions when I jump on people, Pegs,” Angie mutters.

 

The agent sniffs snootily after ensuring Angie didn’t sustain any major injuries and crossing her arms over her chest. “Why did you even do that in the first place?”

 

Angie’s face lights up, the ache in her back already forgotten. “Oh, yes! I got a part in an off-Broadway play, it’s not big or anythin’, but it sure ain't nothing!” She grabs Peggy’s hands in her own and clenches them in excitement.

 

She brushes her thumb over the smooth skin of the back of Peggy’s hand and almost sighs when Peggy’s calloused fingers tighten around her own hands. “Congratulations! I knew you could do it, Angie. I have no doubt you’ll make me and your family proud.”

 

“You really think, English?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Thanks. Really, thanks.” Angie beams and lets go of her hands to wrap her arms around Peggy’s waist and gives her a bone crushing hug. “Gosh, I’m so excited for rehearsals.”

 

Peggy chuckles and returns the hug before pulling away. “I’ll be there for your opening show, Angie, I promise.”

 

“You better.”

 

She doesn’t know how it started, but the flirting and the more suggestive banter was a new thing. Angie doesn’t hate it.

 

Getting ready to head out, Peggy stands. “Do you need anything? I could drop by and buy more tomatoes. Oh, and nothing else hurts, right?”

 

"Would ya kiss it better?" Angie asks with a casual wink thrown over her shoulder.

 

Blushes colour Peggy’s face beautifully, Angie thinks.

 

Peggy scoffs and turns on her heel. “Cheeky,” she grumbles out under her breath.

 

_(“Just a coffee. Sit down for a while, there aren’t any new customers... Angie, can I ask you something?”_

_“Sure thing, Frank.”_

_“Are you – Were you – Jimmy was a queer, wasn’ he?”_

_“What? Frank. Frankie, God… What type of question is that?”_

_“Don’t do that actress shit with me, Angie. Answer straight with me, alright? No smart mouthin'. Are you queer?”_

_“…Frankie.”_

_“Angie, you can tell me. I love ya, okay? I’ve seen many things. I’ve seen hell. It’s made by the hands of men, there ain’t a God up there, either. Definitely no God that could hate ya. An’ I tell ya, Heaven is only bein’ able to live your life with no fear or regret. You deserve heaven.”_

_“I… Thank you, Frankie. I’m okay. I’m queer.”_

_“Hey, hey, c’mere, Ange. Those better be happy tears, okay? Because I’ll keep your secret from papa and mamma, if it makes you happy.”_

_She doesn’t know whether the tears are caused by the capacity of her brother’s tormented heart or because her brother did see the depths of hell during the war._

_“I want you to be in heaven, as well, Frankie. I want you to see heaven.”_

_“Me, too.”)_

 

Alongside the flirting came cheek kisses. Angie knows how that started.

 

Howard Stark. The self-invested dick.

 

“Hey, Peg, how’s my humble abode suiting your tastes?” he practically hollers after bursting through their door, brandishing their house key in his right hand. “Oh. Shame. Was expecting to walk in on at least one of you. Must say, the robe is lovely, Angie.”

 

Reading through her book and not even batting an eye, Peggy’s hand shoots out to curl and clamp down Angie’s wrist before she could catapult household objects.

 

She marches off to change into something more appropriate before returning to hushed whispers of her roommate and Stark.

 

“Time to stop your secret spy whispering, ‘cause I’m coming in.”

 

Howard leans back in his seat and Peggy lifts the book to her face. “Is that all you came to say, Howard?”

 

“No. No, not at all,” he states with a frown on his face. “I believe one of my better appliances in this house has gone ka-boom.”

 

Angie stifles a giggle when Peggy slowly lowers the book and levels Howard with a stern glare, steel in her eyes. (Angie wonders if this is how she regarded her soldiers. Or Steve Rogers, once upon a time. Maybe.)

 

“Your more efficient blow dryer blew up beside Peggy’s tea bags.”

 

Howard winces and inches towards the door. “I see. Well, I’ll have a replacement blow dryer along with five – no, ten boxes of the best tea bags delivered to you by Tuesday- Ow! Okay, I’m sorry. God, Peggy, if you wanted me this bad, you could have- Dammit!”

 

“Why did the bloody hair dryer blow up in the first place, you arse!”

 

“Stop hitting me, at least I didn’t blow up the damned Queen of England!” He earns himself a final whack over the head that makes him almost fall over, after rubbing the back of his head tenderly and muttering something about treasured minds and losing brain cells, he mutters, “Wrong wiring here and bad assembling there, nothing too complicated.”

 

“ _Nothing too complicated_? That could have bloody well blown up half my head!”

 

Angie finds herself increasingly entertained.

 

“Actually, only a quarter.”

 

It’s only when Peggy’s reaching for a harder object to slap Howard with, does she step in.

 

“Hey, English, cool down. He said he’ll pay for everything and ten boxes of your grand English treasures.” Angie rests a hand on Peggy’s elbow and tugs lightly. “Save your Howard Stark caused anger for the Russian assassins.”

 

Peggy raises her hand away from the book and steps farther away from the now smirking Howard.

 

She sits back down daintily and reaches for her book again. “Dismantle every object in this house that could potentially blow any portion of our bodies, or furniture, up.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he jokingly barks out as he strides down the corridor, but not before dropping a kiss to Peggy’s cheek.

 

The book whips out so fast, he barely registers what happens when he’s picking himself up off the floor.

 

“I don't remember you being this violent before...” he huffs.

 

Angie rolls her eyes and nudges Howard up. “Get out of here before she castrates you, moustache.”

 

He doesn’t need to hear it twice.

 

Angie turns around to face the steaming Peggy. “I hope your face isn’t melting off.”

 

“It’s a shame that you can’t kiss it better, seeing that I wouldn’t want to inflict this type of pain on to your _lips_.” Peggy’s face is scrunched up adorably and her arm is pressed to her face.

 

It’s hard to put this woman in front of her on a battlefield. In front of a gun. Or behind one.

 

Angie grins, she reaches out and removes Peggy’s arm from her cheek. “Well,” Angie starts. She leans over and presses a light kiss to her cheek. She widens her smile. “I heard that I’m immune.”

 

Peggy blinks.

 

_(“Hey, Jim. Been a while. I hope you’re okay with the big man up there.”_

_The sun shines bright and the birds sing tunes to the mourning._

_This place. It holds so much pain and misery. It holds loved one in its grip. Yet, it’s so beautiful._

_“I told Frankie about me. We’re okay. Me and Frankie. And you.”_

_It’s stunning.)_

 

Her eyes droop and her head is lolled to the side.

 

“What can I get ya, _sir_?”

 

“Get me a turkey sandwich from over ‘ere, baby.”

 

“Ya got your own two hands and legs, mister. Here’s how you do it. Use the legs and then the hands to put a coin in, and bam, there ya go!”

 

The man puts his fork down and pushes to his feet. “You gettin’ smart with me? Listen here, dolly, you-”

 

“Is there a problem here?”

 

Angie turns and sees an army woman. 2nd lieutenant Peggy Carter.

 

“You work here or you some high class call-girl?” The man’s face is red now, his eyes are narrowed into slits, and theirs beads of sweat seeping out from under his toupee.

 

Peggy’s wearing pants today, along with a white blouse and her hat. She strides closer with her left hand in her pocket.

 

Her eyes are dangerous, but her face is a mask of calm. Dangerous. She regards the man with a high chin and a cool – icy – gaze. “Let’s… Let’s just say I’m concerned.”

 

“Yeah?” His eyes don’t notice her fingers dancing across his table top and curling around a fork. “Concerned for who?”

 

Angie notices, though. Her eyes flicker to meet Peggy’s face.

 

Marble skin. Sculpted by the delicate touch of Gods. Harsh jaw. Deadly red coil of a smile.

 

“Peggy,” she warns under her breath, “don’t.”

 

Peggy doesn’t seem to hear. Or she does, and just ignores Angie.

 

She lifts the fork up, soundlessly, and presses it to the man’s chest, finely, precisely.

 

“For you,” she states simply as the man’s leer forms a grunt and then a grimace. “Do tip kindly, please. Oh, and please work on your atrocious manners.”

 

His face looks about ready to explode, not of anger, his face is literally an almost purple shade of red and his eyes bulge. He manages to nod. His sweat sticks to his skin, a sheen of it.

 

“Peggy. A word.” Angie hisses, but before she wrenches Peggy away, the man drops ten crisp bills on the table and hurries out of the diner in a rushed waddle.

 

“Come again!” Peggy calls after him, there’s a husk in her voice. A threat.

 

Angie isn’t afraid, in fact, she gives Peggy a piece of her mind.

 

“Don’t do that again, English,” she punctuates each word with a jab to Peggy’s chest after making it to the bathroom. “I can hold my own, you hear? I don’t need you doin’ that.”

 

“I was just-”

 

“No. Don’t want t’ hear it,” Angie interrupts with a snarl. “You save all that for the hit mans and mobsters. We will continue this later.”

 

Peggy remains stoic.

 

Angie gives her one last harsh look before pulling the door open. “Oh, and you’re running out of moves, there, English. I’ve seen you do that one to Powdered Eggs.”

 

“What? Hey, it’s effective!”

 

_(“What is this? Some kinda joke, huh?”_

_“No! Papa, stop! Daddy!”_

_“What? You jus’ tellin’ me yer some kinda dyke?”_

_“Stop! Merda!_ _Mi dispiace!”_

_“You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry? Wait till I tell yer ma. What? Yer cryin’ now? Cazzo – Cazzo Queer! Disgusting! Was Jimmy a filthy faggot, too? Cryin’? Cazzo figa. You deserve this. You need fixin’. You need fuckin’ fixin’, I’ll beat it in to ya!”_

_“Stop! Stop! Vecchio pazzo! Stop!”_

_“Crazy old man? Tha’s what you think of me? You’re a sinner! You’re bad. Broken! This is not okay. Disgustin’! Sporco! Disgustin’, disgustin’, disgustin’.”)_

 

Angie wonders how she does it.

 

She can shift from cold and collected to warm and peaceful in a blink of an eye.

 

Her warm smile can melt into a twisted, jagged scowl, and her darting eyes can easily crinkle up in the edges and have fire and warmth dance and weave around each other.

 

There’s so many Peggy Carters, and she finds it so easy to just transition.

 

There’s 2nd lieutenant and SSR Agent Peggy Carter, made of steel and marble. Then, there’s Howard Stark’s Peggy Carter, playful, annoyed, and maybe a little disgusted. Then, there’s Angie’s Peggy Carter. Angie’s Peggy Carter is tender, yet funny. And dorky. And a little exasperated. Definitely protective.

 

Angie’s Peggy Carter is _the_ Peggy Carter. The Peggy Carter that’s all the sides of her in one, genuine and whole.

 

She’s beautiful and dangerous, intelligent and she’s _home_.

 

When Angie comes home from her shift at the diner with brighter eyes, it turns out she doesn’t get to continue her conversation with Peggy.

 

The agent is dozing lightly on their sofa.

 

Her book lays upon her stomach that rises and falls gently. Her eyelashes flutter occasionally against the slopes of her pale skin.

 

In contrast to Peggy’s natural beauty, her blouse is crinkled and the trousers ride up to the middle of her calf. Light snores nestle in her chest and emit through her parted lips – the lipsticks smudged. She’s imperfect.

 

Angie loves it.

 

Peggy jolts awake when Angie throws her bag onto the armchair by the sofa and it falls to the ground. (Her roommate is definitely the more coordinated of the two.)

 

She sits up and swings her legs over the sofa, giving Angie a smile with her eyelids half closed and hair sticking up at one part of her head. “Time is it?”

 

The waitress’ smile matches Peggy’s, it’s soft edged, lighthearted and untroubled. She nods to the clock mounted on the wall with raised eyebrows.

 

“Sorry, I fell asleep before I could be thoroughly shouted at,” she mumbles while rubbing her eyes and blinking the sleep out of her eyes. “Angie?”

 

Peggy is open. Peggy is kind. Peggy is everything.

 

Angie doesn’t meet her eyes, because if she does, she’ll tell Peggy everything. The agent looks so vulnerable and open in her state, just woken up and smiling.

 

It’s endearing and adorable.

 

She spares Peggy a reassuring glance before quickly turning around and gathering up her fallen bag.

 

“Are you alright, dear?” Peggy frowns now. “You’re quiet. Did something happen?”

 

She looks at Peggy again. Peggy with the worried tug at her eyebrows and soft browns.

 

Angie thinks about telling her. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words are stuck in her throat, rejected by her mind and searching for the right words.

 

Then, she croaks out an, “I’m,” then a whisper, fragile and wobbly in the air, “queer.”

 

_(“Did he do this to you?”_

_“…Frankie.”_

_“Did he do this to you? Don’t fuckin’ sass me or nothin’, answer me.”_

_“Yes-”_

_“I will kill him. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill that bastard.”_

_“No! Frankie, no! Just, leave it. Okay? Leave it.”_

_“What? What do you mean ‘leave it’? You defendin’ him?”_

_“H-He’s right. About me. I’m disgustin’, Frankie.”_

_“You are not. You are an angel. You are okay, Angie. Nothin’ wrong with lovin’ who you gotta be lovin’, okay? Bene? You’re queer, and that’s okay. Okay. That’s right, no more crying. Heaven. Yes? Thinkin’ of your heaven, okay? Thinkin’ of the angel that’s gonna be lucky to be yours in the future?”_

_“I-I’m okay.”_

_“Yes. Bene. He touches you again, you find me. You hear me, Angie? You come fucking find me.”)_

 

“Peggy?” Angie’s hands tremble and her eyes focus and unfocus.

 

The agent is completely silent and poised at the edge of the sofa, staring intently at Angie.

 

“English. Peggy, please say something.” Angie stands with her bag clutched in her vice grip like a shield. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I-I’ll go pack my stuff and I’ll get outta ya face.”

 

She crosses the room and her body shakes more violently the closer she is to the exit, by the time Peggy’s soft, velvety voice reaches her ears, her bodies racked with sobs.

 

“Angie,” her voice almost beckons her over, it’s soft and careful. “Angie, come here. I’m glad you told me.”

 

Angie stops at the doorway with her shoulders relying on the frame to keep her whole body upright. She doesn’t notice Peggy moving closer until she’s right beside her and until she’s almost robotically placing a hand to her lower back.

 

“I’m sorry.” Angie’s blubbering now. She sinks to the ground with her knees pulled to her chest as a safer shield to the world than her purse could have been. “I’m sorry.”

 

Peggy sighs and pulls Angie’s shivering body to her chest. “It’s fine, Angie. Alright. No more tears, okay? Would you like me to make you some of my very English and royal tea?”

 

“With the crumpets?”

 

Peggy laughs and helps Angie to the sofa. “With the crumpets.”

 

_(“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.”_

_Her mirror mouths the words with her._

_“I’m normal. I like boys. James Cagney and Van Johnson. Any type. Just boys. Boys.”_

_The dark of her room stares back at her._

_“Normal.”_

_Lies._

_“Boys.”_ _)_

 

“You’re okay with me, then?” Angie prompts during breakfast, trying to come off as casual as she pastes butter onto her toast. “With my, um, preferences.”

 

“Of course,” Peggy replies without even turning around from their coffeemaker.

 

Angie looks down at her toast and blows out a puff of air when she realizes her toast is layered and caked in butter. “Oh.”

 

“Is that really edible?” Peggy teases with a quirked eyebrow when she finally faces Angie and notices the toast. “Surely, you’re more aware of your health and diet.”

 

“Blah, blah, blah. Take your accent and make someone else feel bad while I eat this toast, because this is exactly how I always eat it, English.”

 

It isn’t. Angie almost regurgitates in her mouth with how sweet and pasty it feels in her mouth, but Peggy’s looking at her with that look, and there’s no way she’s going to win this.

 

She manages to take two bites out of it before putting it back down and sniffing. “I’m not hungry. That’s why I’m not eating it.”

 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Peggy drawls with a grin. “You’re not hungry at all.”

 

“Shut up, English, you try eatin’ that.”

 

The way Peggy can make her forget about her worries and make her feel like everything is okay again would have concerned her, if it wasn’t for the fact that she knew two things.

 

One, everything _is_ okay again, and, two, she knows very, very well what she feels for the agent. (She doesn’t like it, but she knows she won’t be able to get rid of her feelings, not unless she moves to another state for a couple of years, and she can’t afford that.)

 

Mr. Fancy knocks on their door and helps with the dishes while eyeing the offensive piece of buttered toast for at least five minutes. Then, they turn up the radio and the music. Angie practices lines, Peggy goes through files, and Jarvis cleans before excusing himself to go home to be with his wife.

 

Life is further confirming point number one.

 

Everything is okay.

 

_(“Jimmy. Nice to see ya again. I don’t come ‘round here much anymore, after what happened, I don’t have much reason to be here. No more family dinners. Frankie comes ‘round to the diner sometimes, though. God. It has been a while. Papa found out about me and he hit me. Told everyone.”_

_She’s the only one there, so she’s not afraid to sit on the grass and let tears leak out._

_“Sometimes, I hate bein’ me, ya know? Sometimes, I hate it. But I remember you. I remember you an’ I remind myself, this isn’t what you’d want me t’ be thinking. I’m okay. I’m queer. I’d say instead. I hope you’re proud of me, Jim, I hope you’re proud.”)_

 

“Just a coffee,” a deep, rumbling voice booms across the almost deserted diner. “Hey, Angel, ya got ears or what?”

 

Angie rolls her eyes from behind the bar and ignores the booming. She only stops scrubbing the surface when the door spins open and the distinctive click clacking of heels sounds against the dirty diner floor.

 

“Angel. I know ya got ears and hands, use ‘em to get me some grub!”

 

Peggy halts. She snaps her head around and narrows in on the rugged man seated in her booth.

 

“English, I’m hoping you’re not thinkin’ about disemboweling my brother.” Angie tucks the towel into her apron and heads over to Peggy’s usual booth and the one her brother was occupying at the moment. “And I hope you’re done with the calling out, Frank.”

 

“I’m Frankie, her big brother.” Frankie sticks his hand out for Peggy and squeezes tighter, he masks his surprise when she squeezes back just as tight. “You _friends_ with my sister?”

 

Angie groans at the way he says ‘friends’ as she slides into the booth beside her brother and pinches him in the leg. She smiles with satisfaction when he squeals and jerks away. “Peggy isn’t my girl, she’s my friend and roommate.”

 

Frankie’s eyes widen at the bluntness of the statement. “She knows?”

 

“Yes, I do. I’m Peggy Carter,” the Englishwoman introduces herself politely, but not in a way that makes her seem standoffish.

 

“Ah, English.” He nods, understanding the nickname.

 

Angie watches the two interact, making small talk and smiling at the right times. Frankie’s eyes are careful, calculating, not unlike Peggy’s when regarding strangers.

 

His form is slightly different. His back is straight, but with the brunt work he does with her father at the garage, his shoulders are more hunched and there’s a limp in his leg.

 

Peggy’s form is perfect. Her shoulders slope in a feminine way, but are pushed back, and she walks like she owns the floors she stands on.

 

Angie zones back into the conversation as Peggy asks, “Were you a soldier?”

 

“Yeah,” Frankie answered, surprise soaked in his voice. “I was. How’d ya know? Angie tell ya?”

 

Peggy allows a smile to flicker on her face. “No, she didn’t. I was ex-military, myself.”

 

“You?” he almost shouts in disbelief.

 

The agent cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. “I’m certain.”

 

“Oh! Didn’ mean anythin’ by it, jus’ that us soldiers aren’t as classy as you, or were ya in the offices?” Frankie asks, “English army, yeah?”

 

Peggy chuckles. “Classy?”

 

“English, have you _seen_ yourself? Walkin’ around with your red hat n’ lips, oh, and your heels,” Angie cuts in before Peggy can deny it. “Don’t get me started on you, your clothes, and your tea.”

 

“Hey! I’m _English_ , I do recall you saying that it was an unspoken rule that all English eat crumpets and drink tea!”

 

“And then you call me a stereotypical twit, Pegs,” Angie snaps back, resisting the urge to beam at her.

 

“Oh, hush, you.” Peggy tsks at Angie before turning to a bewildered Frankie. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I was a 2nd lieutenant in the _American_ army. And you?”

 

Angie rolls her eyes as they begin to trade stories and gets up to serve the new customers, before she leaves, her brother is shooting Peggy an amazed gasp, and Peggy flicks her eyes to Angie’s and widens her smile.

 

_(“Just a coffee, Angie. How you holdin’ up?”_

_“I’m okay. Got an audition comin’ up, though.”_

_“Good on ya!”_

_He sounds happy. He sounds fine. Angie knows better. She’s smart._

_His eyes are still the cradle of his lost friends and his lost brothers._

_His mouth is still tasting the dust of sin and destruction._

_His shoulders are still carrying the weight of bloodied dirt and the responsibility of his uniform._

_But, he laughs and smiles and congratulates his dear sister.)_

 

She’s smart, sure, but she’s still no good with puzzles, and she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why she receives a call from Frankie telling her she’s been invited over for Sunday dinner with the family.

 

Peggy finds her pacing in her own room, muttering profanities in Italian and waving around a long forgotten and crumpled script.

 

“Are you alright there, darling?” Confusion and worry is etched into her face, and if Angie wasn’t cursing her family, she’d be secretly fawning over how adorable Peggy looked.

 

Angie drops herself onto her bed and lies spread eagled on the grand sheets. “Peachy. Frank calls and says, ‘hi, sister dear, the family who cast you away a couple years ago wants you back for some nice dinner, like before, drop by, will ya?’”

 

Peggy’s never asked much about Angie’s sexuality, let alone talked about it, but here she is. “What happened?”

 

Angie gives her a distracted hum and lifts her head off the bed.

 

Sitting on the very edge of the bed, Peggy glances over her shoulder and asks again, “What happened? With you and your family?”

 

“Oh.” Angie gives a noncommittal shrug with a small puff of a sigh and drops her head back down. “This n’ that. Nothing to worry about, English.”

 

For an agent, Peggy isn’t very good at getting information out of Angie, and her job entails getting information.

 

And maybe, Angie’s a little proud of that.

 

She tells Frankie that there’s an audition on Sunday that she can’t miss, it’s a bad excuse and she’s sure Peggy could have come up with a better one, but Frankie hears the desperation in her voice, so he takes it.

 

Angie Martinelli isn’t stupid. She doesn’t just _walk_ into a lion’s den.

 

_(The next time she sees Frankie, his eyes are softer and his shoulders are lifted a bit higher._

_The restless ghosts in his eyes fade to the background and the remnants of his own has begun to return and piece together._

_The weight of the battlefield and fire seems to have been lifted off his body. It’s like he can breathe again._

_It’s like he’s in heaven._

_“You’ve met someone?”_

_“I have.”_

_“I hope she’s everything, Frank.”)_

 

Peggy stumbles in and Angie almost cries.

 

Blood seeps through her clothes and gashes rupture her smooth skin.

 

Her white blouse is tarnished and hanging open, revealing her torn up undergarments.

 

The thing that sends chills through Angie’s bones is Peggy’s normally flawless face.

 

The shining brown of her eyes stand out on her sheet white skin, soaked in red. Her sinful lips are curled, bloodied by grunts and pain. It’s twisted. That smile.

 

It’s terrible. It sends jolts through Angie, and she’s pounding the floor down as she runs.

 

“Angie, darling, be a dear and call Mr. Jarvis before I pass out, please,” slides out of her throat like honey, smooth as silk and untroubled as a feather drifting through the air to stroke the floor.

 

It makes the undying grin seem more deadly, cunning.

 

It sends Angie’s heart to the floor and practically bulldozing over every piece of furniture in her way to get to the phone, because _oh my god_.

 

When Mr. Jarvis _does_ arrive, Angie has already panicked enough for ten life times, and finished stripping Peggy down.

 

She had cut the skirt away from her cuts and removed the blouse.

 

Angie had cautiously rolled the tank top up, stopping before it got even the slightest bit inappropriate and shoulders drooping when she saw what lay beneath.

 

Long, blue-red bruises with sickly, rotten yellow tinging the sides painted across Peggy’s toned, scarred stomach.

 

It made Angie sick to the stomach and she quickly excused herself once Mr. Jarvis set to work with the tools she had quickly composed together.

 

By the time Peggy cracks open her eyes, Angie is already feeling as good as she could (see: not very) and gripping her hand tightly.

 

“You know,” the agent croaks out, “I do fancy some tea.”

 

Angie resists the urge to shatter Peggy’s untarnished face with her fist. “You’re a numbskull, English, that’s what you are.”

 

“Well, I do feel like shite right now.”

 

The agent rarely curses, but Angie assumes it’s because she had just got the stuffing beat out of her earlier and isn’t thinking straight.

 

Angie hands her a cup of tea she had prepared already and smiles softly when Peggy sips at it with shaking hands. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

 

Peggy glances up at Angie at the murmured words, barely audible. “Hm? Oh, yes. Thank you, darling. For being there. And here.”

 

She’s dressed now, in nightwear that covers her cleaned and dressed wounds.

 

“You know, English, you’re heavier than my Uncle who lives in Brooklyn – goodness, the man knows how to eat – and you’re still looking healthier than most. Good form,” she sounds awkward, but it’s true. Dressing Peggy was a difficult and incredibly uncomfortable task, she felt as if she was violating something.

 

The agent doesn’t say anything.

 

Her lips are tilted into a smile, the type she just wakes up with.

 

Bur Angie sees blood lips and secrets. She sees the twisted smile Peggy has before she almost collapses on the floor.

 

She sees disaster.

 

_(Benito Martinelli is a dark man._

_There’s shadows and destruction cutting lines under his eyes._

_He stands ramrod straight with thin lips that reach across his face._

_His shoulders are broad and swing only slightly when he struts across the diner to his sister._

_Her name comes out in the rumble of his voice, clipped and firm._

_She instantly stops, the empty cup in her hand shakes ever so slightly. She resumes, putting the cup down on the bar and turning. Her hands clamp over his wrist and tugs him to the backroom where he immediately wrenches his hand from her grip._

_They don’t speak for a full minute, they both examine and stay frighteningly still._

_Until, “It’s okay, Angela,” comes out of his mouth, rough and flooding with emotions._

_“It is?” Angie double takes._

_“It is. We’ll have you fixed. We will.”_

_Benito Martinelli is a dark man._

_He sees the light when Angie Martinelli whips her fist back and sends it crashing into his bent nose._

_He sees the Angie Martinelli he grew up with. He sees that she hasn’t changed (much)._

_He sees that the devil hadn’t taken her, and, really, it is okay. He smiles. Shadows under his lips, but light in his eyes.)_

“Be safe, English. Be safe, or I’ll feed you a nice knuckle sandwich, Martinelli style.”

 

Angie exits the car with a storm cloud over her head and one last cursory glare to the now partially-healed Peggy.

 

She returns to their home with a grin and the sun shining everywhere she sees.

 

Peggy’s relaxed into an armchair when she gets back with her tea and book right where they belong. Probably back early because she wasn’t ready to deal with the gloating the assholes at the SSR.

 

“English!” Angie hollers as she races to the startled agent who swiftly places her drink and book down. “Brace yourself!”

 

“Audition went – oof – well, I take it?” Peggy laughs and pats Angie’s back. Angie who’s currently wrapped around the Englishwoman tightly with a thousand watt grin lighting up her face.

 

“You bet! They said I’d definitely be gettin’ a call and t’ expect gettin’ a good part!” Angie almost deafens Peggy. “Oh, my god, Pegs, I’m doin’ it!”

 

Peggy had a face splitting beam of her own as she pulled back, not minding Angie’s knees that were digging into her own thighs. “I’m proud of you, Angie, I knew you could do it. Congratulations, you deserve it. This and mu- Oh.”

 

The actress peppers Peggy’s cheeks and forehead with kisses, her excited giggles blowing her warm breath across Peggy’s skin.

 

She stops as abruptly as it started, their faces barely an inch away and their grins in place. “Sorry, English, got a bit excited.”

 

Peggy’s lips pull wider and she shrugs. Her hands fly to steady Angie when she loses a bit of her balance with a startled yelp of ‘whoa!’

 

When their eyes meet again, their smiles slide into teasing little lilts. Their much closer now.

 

“Sorry, English,” Angie mutters again, leaning into the warmth.

 

Peggy blinks once, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, before she almost sends Angie hurtling to the floor.

 

Her startled yap is muffled by soft, soft lips.

 

_(“Frankie, why didn’t you tell me Benny had a dog?”_

_“He didn’t know, Angie.”_

_“Yeah, an' why didn’ ya tell me, Ben?”_

_“Wan’ed to surprise you. If ‘is is how ya react, then I ain’t gonna show ya anythin’ anymore.”_

_“No! Oh, God, he’s adorable. What’s this cutie called?”_

_“She. She’s called Angel.”_

_“Ha! Y’hear that, Angie, yer a dog!”_

_“Shut up, Frankie.”_

_Angel barks and nips Benito’s palm._

_The shadows are gone, replaced by youth and laughter lines._

_Angie learns that day you don’t need affection from another human to find redemption and happiness.)_

 

“Darling, I really do need to go.”

 

“You’re real pretty, Pegs.”

 

She is.

 

The sunrays peak through Angie’s maroon curtains and bathes Peggy in its warmth.

 

She looks unprotected, but still a force to be reckoned with.

 

Her bare skin is decorated in old scars and Angie’s attention. She’s open. She’s vulnerable. She’s happy.

 

She looks different without her hat and the guns and danger strapped to her body. She looks soft, and _is_ soft.

 

Angie loves this Peggy. She loves Peggy.

 

“Thank you, Angie, you’re beautiful as well,” Peggy responds wryly, still moving to the edge of the bed. “But duty still calls.”

 

“Can’t the other spies deal with the baddies?”

 

Peggy chuckles, it reverberates in her chest and causes a grin to bloom over Angie’s face.

 

“I’m sure, they are capable, but I believe I am considerably better.” Peggy stands, but leans over the bed to press a tender kiss to Angie’s pouting lips.

 

“If you’re so good, why hasn’t the bad guy in our house been taken care of yet?”

 

The agent raises an eyebrow. “And who might that be?”

 

“Don’t you remember? Last week, you attacked me and almost shoved me on the floor with those evil lips of yours.” Angie leans up to chase after Peggy’s lips.

 

“Ah, but I recall you professing your undying love for them, quite recently. Screaming it, in fact.”

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

 

Peggy laughs airily as she retreats to her own room.

 

“ _Screaming?_ What ‘bout you, _Margaret_? Hey!”

 

_(“Tea. Earl Grey, please,”_

_“Sure thing, English. Anything else?”)_

 

Angie doesn’t care for anything else. She throws the flowers carelessly onto her chair and shoves through crowds to get to the street, no one recognizes her when she’s not reciting her lines under bright lights and cakes of makeup.

 

It’s her last show and she probably should have stayed.

 

She should have.

 

But Peggy’s more important.

 

Peggy with her secretive, little smirk.

 

Peggy with her lithe, swift movement.

 

Peggy with her barely registered brushes against Angie’s burning skin.

 

Peggy with her whispered confessions of love pressed to lips.

 

Peggy with her solid, heated, _safe_ hold.

 

Peggy with her.

 

She distractedly shoves bills into the taxi driver’s hands when she arrives at the house.

 

She practically kicks the doors down and knocks over furniture getting to Peggy’s closed doors just as Howard and Mr. Jarvis exit with weary faces and slack jaws.

 

She pauses. Her fingers hover and vibrate barely noticeably over the door handle.

 

Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a shaky blow, she pushes in.

 

The body is limp on the bed, the shoulders relaxed, unlike her normal posture, and face peaceful.

 

Peggy’s forehead has a thin layer of sweat on it, her hair is pasted down and she’s pale. So pale.

 

Angie judders back to reality when the doors click shut behind her gently, alone, she rushes to Peggy’s side and chokes back her cry.

 

Her lips are parted. Red. Red, red lips.

 

And.

 

And there’s a scratchy, labored intake and soft exhale of breath every now and then.

 

She sobs into her own hand, silently, at first. Peggy sounds like it’s taking _effort_ for her to breathe and function normally. Like, it’s so, incredibly difficult to do, that she may as well stop.

 

Angie then reaches out and gingerly pulls Peggy’s uninjured hand to her face and presses salty kisses to the back.

 

The hands are thin, and delicate, and soaked in sin. She holds them tight, all the same. She’s afraid of letting them go. She’s afraid they’ll disappear.

 

Her tears run down her cheeks and chin and the expanse of Peggy’s palm.

 

She lays her head on Peggy’s stomach, listening to the air whoosh in and out while clutching both hands (one tear stained, the other wrapped up in bandages).

 

Angie doesn’t remember the wicked, bloodied lips, the smirk she flashes when she’s trying to be strong. When she’s trying to be okay.

 

Angie remembers the smudged, red-pink lips. Swollen and matched with wide eyes. Slightly parted, with the ends playing at a smile. She’s far better than okay in that memory.

 

For three days, Angie sits at Peggy’s side, munching on stale bread and her fingers. For the following two, she switches to cold soup and salt.

 

On the sixth day, Peggy breathes properly and she mumbles out husked words between breaths.

 

On the seventh, Angie consumes tea, one cup after another until she can't and until Peggy opens her eyes and Angie lets out all the air in her lungs with an, “Oh, I hate you.”

 

Peggy snorts and promptly closes her eyes again.

 

“I hate you. I hate you, and I love you so much,” Angie rushes in through leaking tears, gosh, maybe actresses _do_ need to work on keeping their emotions in check. “I love you, Margaret Carter, I love you with everythin’ and if you do that again, I’ll give you a good kick the Martinelli way and your sorry spy ass won’t escape.”

 

Peggy allows a lazy grin to reach across her lips and her eyes meet with Angie’s again. She tries to speak, but her voice cracks and scrapes her throat.

 

Angie isn’t stupid, she’ll figure out what she's trying to say (she's pretty sure she's underestimated how observant Angie is).

 

She supposes she’ll return the sentiment later.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! 
> 
> please please please point out any mistakes/give constructive criticism!!!!  
> you can shout at me to get off my ass at my side tumblr here: edqarquintero.tumblr.com
> 
> any type of criticism is welcome so go for it! thanks again!


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